


Fairy-tales, Cabbages & Potatoes

by bunn



Series: Discussions upon Translations from the Elvish [1]
Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Between The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, Canon - Book, Class Differences, Gap Filler, Gen, Hobbit Children, Hobbit Culture & Customs, Hobbits, The Shire, Third Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-23 21:40:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14341458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunn/pseuds/bunn
Summary: "Many's the talk I had with [Bilbo] when I was a little lad" Sam Gamgee says, and then much later: "I wonder if we shall ever be put into songs or tales...you know, told by the fireside, or read out of a great big book."So here is young Sam Gamgee hearing far-off tales of Elves, Bilbo Baggins, trying to piece together the tale of the Silmarils for the first time, Frodo Baggins being a wild young mushroom-stealing tearaway who matures into an earnest scholar, and Merry Brandybuck and Sam Gamgee getting started on their great Conspiracy.





	1. Of Bilbo’s Adventure

**Author's Note:**

> This was written hoping it would provide a simple version of the Silmarillion for people who had only read Lord of the Rings, framed by hobbits, and it's not quite that in the end. I hope you like it anyway.
> 
> This tale sticks to Lord of the Rings book canon, not movie canon (NOT because I have any objections to the movies: I love them! but just because there are so much more detailed timelines for the book.) so Frodo is 12 years older than Sam, and both Sam and Frodo have a rather better knowledge of tales of Elves than they do in the movies.

The autumn sun was shining on the neat green grass, and flooding in through Bilbo’s study window, so that the dust shone in the light.  Frodo looked longingly at the sunshine from his seat in the arm-chair. It spoke of woods and fields and rivers, of autumn mushrooms in the fields, apples in sore need of scrumping, and blackberries rich and succulent in the hedges.  

It  _ was _ good to be able to spend time with Bilbo at Bag End, away from the noise and bustle of Brandy Hall, where there was always something going on, but nobody that entirely belonged to Frodo any more, now his parents were both dead. Frodo always seemed to be in trouble there, lately.  Old cousin Bilbo was very odd, but he could be fun too, even though he was so old - more than ninety, though you’d never think it to look at him. He had lots of interesting stories, and... Bilbo was all on his own, too. But it was such a lovely day, out there where the birds were singing.  It made Bilbo’s study seem suffocatingly warm and dull. 

Frodo gave in to the temptation to yawn. 

“Am I boring you, young man?” Bilbo demanded, stopping at once. 

“You did read this bit to me last time I visited,” Frodo said plaintively. “The Elves waking you up by singing all night isn’t the most exciting part of the story, specially when I’ve heard it three times before.” 

“Hmph,” Bilbo said, and looked very severe for a moment.  Frodo wondered if he would be bundled back to Brandy Hall at once for insolence, and wished he had kept his mouth shut. 

But Bilbo laughed.  “I suppose it isn’t the best part of the tale.  It must be less fun hearing about the peaceful joyful parts of the story, though, I assure you Frodo, those are the best parts of the story to be in at the time!  Tell you what, we’ll take a hike through the woods tomorrow, and I’ll read you the bit about the goblin attack in the mountains. That’s exciting enough, and I’ve put in the goblin’s song, you haven’t heard that at all yet!  But I can see you’re itching to get outside. Go on then! I’ll expect you back for dinner: I’ve made a big pork pie and a seedy-cake. And there should be some mushrooms down in my lower field, I think. You can collect some of those to go with the pie, but make sure it’s only from my field.  Don’t you go annoying good old Tom Cotton the way you did Farmer Maggot, there’s a good lad.” 

“No, Bilbo,” Frodo said dutifully, and slipped hurriedly out of the door, rejoicing.

Bilbo gathered together the papers on his desk, flipped open his inkpot, and dipped his pen.  Then, hearing a sound outside, he laid it down on the blotter with a sigh. Clearly, today was not going to be a day when he got much writing done.  He went to the low window and peered out. 

A small tearful wide-eyed face looked up at him from the grass outside the window.  It was one of Hamfast the gardener’s children. Was it little May? No, too young, though she - he was wearing May’s old grubby indeterminate smock.  Samwise, that was the name, almost the youngest of Hamfast’s brood apart from baby Marigold. 

“What’s up, little Sam?” he asked. 

“You stopped before the Elves sang,” small Sam said, woebegone. 

“Were you listening under the window, Samwise?” Bilbo said, trying to sound stern.

Samwise nodded guiltily. “Sorry, Mr Bilbo. I didn’t mean to. I just...  wanted to hear about the Elves.” 

“Did you?” Bilbo was surprised.  Neither Hamfast nor Hamfast’s predecessor as gardener, old Holman, had ever shown the least curiosity about anything outside the immediate vicinity of Hobbiton.  Rather the opposite.  Most of Hobbiton was very firmly of the opinion that Dwarves, Wizards, Elves and Men all lived a very long way off, should stay there, and were not worth thinking about. It was ridiculous, really, when there were Elves passing through the Green Hills and the Woody End all the time, Dwarves on the East Road, and Men not far from the borders.  But perhaps little Samwise would be different. 

“All right then, Sam.  Come round into the house, and I’ll read you the bit about the Elves singing, and perhaps we’ll just have a slice of seedycake each too, since it’s about time for afternoon tea.  Make sure you wipe your feet in the kitchen, now.” 

“I  _ always _ wipe my feet, Mr Bilbo!” Samwise said very seriously, his small face lighting up in delight, and vanished in the direction of the kitchen door. 


	2. The Elves go to Valinor

Before long, it was a regular thing that Samwise would come shyly knocking on the kitchen door of Bag End, every now and again, and Bilbo would invite him in for a slice of cake and to hear a story from one of the treasured books kept stored safely on Bilbo’s high shelf; the ones filled with careful red and black letters that told strange stories of places far away, of the founding of the Shire and of the Days of the Kings.  Or perhaps a rhyme or a song from Dale or the Lonely Mountain or from Rivendell. Tales of Elves were by far Sam’s favorite. 

“So,” Bilbo said, and took a sip of tea.   “A very long time ago, before there were Hobbits or Men or Dwarves, before there was even a Sun in the sky, the Elves woke up.  They had been sleeping by a lake, and one day they woke up and looked up and saw the stars.”

“Was it very dark?” Sam asked, perched on the spare armchair in Bilbo’s study with his short legs dangling. 

“It  _ was _ very dark, but the Elves love starlight, even now, and they can see a good deal by it.  But there were bad things hiding in the darkness, servants of the Great Enemy. So the Powers in the West — remember, we talked about them?”

“You said they were called the Valar,” Sam said, remembering. 

“Yes, that’s right.  The Valar sent out someone to find the Elves, and he was called Oromë, and he was a great hunter.  And he hunted the bad things to help the Elves. Then he talked to them, and they were amazed! Because Oromë was very great and powerful, and a little bit scary, probably. But after a while, the Elves got their courage up, and they sent three people to talk to Oromë, called Ingwë, Finwë and Elwë.”

“Funny sort of names!” Sam said. 

“They are, a bit, but I suppose they hadn’t made any names before, and so it was all new to them. Oromë took Ingwë, Finwë and Elwë away to the land of Aman, which is sometimes called Valinor, and that was a very wonderful place in those days. Well, still is, probably.  It was a great wide land where the Valar and their servants the Maiar lived, and in those days it was the only place where there was lots of light, because they had two huge Trees, a Tree of Silver and a Tree of Gold, that were made by the Lady Yavanna, who loves all trees and animals.  And the Trees shone with light and lit all the land. It was very beautiful. 

“So the three Elves thought : We would like to live here too, and bring all our friends!  Partly because it was so beautiful, and also because it was safe from all the fearful things that hid in the darkness.  So Oromë took them home to their people by the lake. 

“Now Ingwë, he thought Valinor was very wonderful, and he convinced all his people, the Vanyar, to go to Valinor right away, and they set off walking West, because there were far too many of them to be carried by Oromë. And so Ingwë led them all to Valinor in the end, and became their King, and there he still is in Valinor.

"And Finwë, he thought Valinor was pretty good too.  So he persuaded  _ his _ people, who are called the Noldor, to go to Valinor too, and they set off walking after the Vanyar. “

“And is Finwë King in Valinor still too, like Ingwë?” Sam asked. 

“No, he died later, I’m afraid. We’ll get to that bit!  Elwë’s people, the Teleri, were the most numerous, and although some of them wanted to go to Valinor, not all of them did. They liked it where they were already. But a lot of them went with Elwë when he set off to walk to Valinor too.

“But, what lies in the West, young Sam?”  

“Michel Delving?” Sam said, uncertainly. 

“Well, yes, quite right! But beyond Michel Delving, West of the White Downs and the Tower Hills, there’s the Sea.  And that’s a huge wide stretch of water, all salty for some reason, and far too wide to wade or swim or even sail over in a boat, unless it’s a really good boat. You can’t even see the other side, I’m told.

“So the Elves got as far as the shore of the Sea, and then Ulmo, Lord of the Sea, said that they should all climb onto an island on the edge.  But there wasn’t room for all of them. So they left the Teleri behind, because they had set out last and they were still arriving, and the Noldor and the Vanyar climbed onto the island, and Ulmo pushed it across, all the way to Valinor! And then the Noldor and the Vanyar got off and went off to see the Trees and enjoy the light.  And they were very happy and sang many songs to the beautiful trees. The Vanyar built a city that was called Valimar, where many of the Valar and the Maiar lived. And the Noldor built a fair white city that was called Tirion, with a tall tower that shone in the light.” 

“But the Teleri were left behind, waiting for the rest of their people to arrive, and for Ulmo to come back and collect them.  Their king, Elwë, went off wandering under the stars through the woods, and there he met the Lady Melian, who was one of the Maiar, the great and powerful servants of the Valar, and they fell in love.   But then Ulmo came back with the island, and there was no sign anywhere of Elwë! So they waited for a while, but he didn’t come back, and so Elwë’s brother Olwë said they should go. But some of them didn’t want to, because they wanted to look for Elwë, and some of them were off in the woods, already looking for him, and they were too late! 

"Because, Ulmo said it was time to go, and he pulled the island over to Valinor with some of the Teleri on top of it and left the rest behind.  The ones who were left behind were called the Sindar, and eventually, Elwë came out of the woods again with Melian and he was their king, and changed his name to Thingol Greycloak.  But he never went back to Valinor.

“So there they were.  Ingwë and the Vanyar, Finwë and the Noldor, and Olwë with some of the Teleri were in Valinor.  The Teleri built a city on the shore, called Alqualondë, and they built ships and sailed on the clear green waves, and sang in wonderful Elf-voices along the white shores of Valinor. But they never went back across the Sea. 

"Elwë Thingol was in Middle-earth, and he gave up on going to Valinor.  He became the king of the Sindar, and lived under the stars for many long years with Melian his Queen, in their beautiful starlit kingdom of Doriath, where there were many nightingales, and the Elves and the nightingales sang together.  It was all very lovely, though not as safe as Valinor.” 

“But,” Sam said with the dogged determination of a gardener’s child.  “If there was no Sun, how did they grow things to eat?”

“It’s a mystery,” Bilbo said rather hastily. “It’s past time for you to be getting home now, Samwise.  Your father will be wondering where you’ve got to.” 

 

****

 

“You know, young Sam, it might be no bad thing if you learned your letters,” Bilbo said thoughtfully one quiet teatime in December when the daylight had almost gone, and the kitchen was lit by the warm light of a lamp.  “You could read some of my notes and books for yourself then, if you were careful with them.”

Outside, the rain was beating down.  Frodo had been packed off, rather reluctantly, to attend his cousin Peony’s Birthday Party at Brandy Hall, from which Bilbo himself had mendaciously excused himself ‘due to age and infirmity’.  It was a rather terrible thing to do to Frodo, but Frodo was young and resilient, and Bilbo was fairly sure he would survive the experience. That meant there was nobody in the house this afternoon but Bilbo, who would very shortly be able to get on with some writing, and little Sam visiting him. 

Sam shook his curly head. “My Gaffer wouldn’t like it, sir,” he said, rather sadly. “He reckons I’m getting above myself, listening to stories about Elves and all.  He called it foolishness.” 

“Hm.  Perhaps I should have a word with your Gaffer,” Bilbo said, and then at Sam’s alarmed expression;  “Nothing too direct! But perhaps if I asked his advice on what he thinks I should be doing with the potato patch instead of just letting him get on with it, that would be a good start.  I’m rather out of it all, up here Under the Hill, you know, especially since I came back from my journey. I don’t get many visits from my neighbours. Perhaps the time  _ has _ come to make a bit more of an effort.” 

And so Bilbo made his way down to Bagshot Row the next day, to have a rather cautious conversation on the matter of ‘roots’ during which Bilbo made a number of flattering comments about the Gaffer’s expertise and widespread reputation. 

Bilbo had always made an effort, as a Baggins of Bag End should do, to ensure that small gifts were sent to the residents of Bagshot Row and to his various other tenants, at Yuletide.  But this year, he made a particular effort, and the Gaffer found himself the richer not just by the usual small token, but also by a very warm and comfortable spare waistcoat, a pair of fat chickens and an enormous sack of flour, that, Bilbo said, had turned up surplus to requirements.  

Feeding young hobbits took a lot of provender, and Gaffer Gamgee had six of them. 

And before it was time for the new potatoes to be dug, it was also an established fact that young Samwise Gamgee was going along,after his chores were done, of course, to learn his letters from Mr Bilbo Baggins.  Mr Baggins, the Gaffer declared, was a true gentleman, and a real pleasure to work for. 

This was a surprise to the  regulars at the Ivy Bush pub, who had previously unanimously considered Bilbo to be a rather dubious individual, prone to all kinds of suspect behaviour. 


	3. The Elf-letters

Sam looked up as Bilbo came back into his study.  He had left Sam alone in there for rather longer than he had intended, because a cousin had turned up rather unexpectedly with a very silly and unimportant problem that he insisted must be dealt with by the head of the Baggins family. It made Bilbo feel terribly tired just thinking about it, but the nuisance had gone away at last, and Sam, unlike Frodo at the same age, could at least be trusted to sit quietly in the study without spilling ink or making scribbles on Bilbo’s best notepaper. 

“You look baffled, Sam,” Bilbo said. 

“I had a look at this book you had open on the desk, sir” Sam said, frowning.  “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, Sam.  I’d got it out to read something to you anyway.”  

“Well, I thought I was doing pretty well with my reading, but I can’t make head nor tail of this!  It’s all just a burble with no words to it!” 

“Ah!” Bilbo said excitedly.  “Now, that’s because this is a different mode of writing to the one you’ve learned, Sam.  This is written in the elf-letters, the way they write them in Lindon, between the Mountains and the Sea.” 

“There are two kinds of letters?” Sam said, his round face incredulous and horrified.  “But why? One’s enough, surely!” 

Bilbo laughed.  “There are lots of different kinds of letters! The Elves seem to take joy in inventing new ones.  These are pretty similar to the ones we use, really. But then there are the dwarf-runes, which are much more angular...” he rummaged in a drawer, and pulled out an old letter to show Sam the runes.  “And there are a number of different modes used with the elf-letters. I can read this one, because it’s not very different to ours, really, once you’ve mastered the trick of it. That’s why my friend sent it to me.“ 

“Is your friend... an Elf?” Sam looked intrigued, excited, and a little alarmed all at once. 

“That’s right,” Bilbo said, without elaborating.  He did not want to encourage Sam Gamgee to go running off to bother the Elves who often passed through the Shire not far from Bag End. They had other business to concern them, without being troubled by hobbit-children.   “I’ve picked up quite a few of the different modes over the years. It’s useful for reading different kind of books, so that I can learn more history, you see. It’s handy for their poetry, as well. You have to read poetry in its own language and letters ideally, I think.  It’s great fun coming up with a translation, but it’s never quite the same.” 

Sam was looking very thoughtful.  “Could _ I _ learn them?” he asked. 

“I don’t see why not,” Bilbo said, before it occurred to him that if Sam was going to learn, Bilbo would have to teach him, which would no doubt eat up precious time that Bilbo would prefer to use in writing his book.  But he could not bring himself to take it back now, looking at Sam’s round face bright with enthusiasm. He rummaged in a drawer until he found a sheet covered in Frodo’s bold confident hand-writing. 

“Here you go,” he said. “Here’s the letter-list we use for writing in the Shire, and the one that the Elf-letters of Lindon use, Sam, and some notes.  Frodo wrote it out for practice a few years back. See what you can make of that.”


	4. Gil-galad, the War of Wrath, and The Last Alliance

Sam was carefully weeding the flowerbed along the fence outside Bag End, plucking out stray tufts of grass, chickweed and dandelions that had crept in among the shining pale yellow primroses that Bilbo was so fond of.  He had started helping out Gaffer Gamgee at work, this year, and already proving a great help. 

Bilbo was sitting in the sunlight on a bench among the primroses, reading his post and enjoying the spring sunlight. 

“Here’s a bit of good news, Sam!” he said. “It’s about Frodo coming to live at Bag End. I’m going to adopt him as my heir, you know. That will be one in the eye for the frighttful Sackville-Bagginses!  Ah... don’t tell anyone I said that though will you?”

Sam solemnly shook his head. 

“There’s a good lad!  Anyway, this note is from the last of the witnesses: Frodo will be here with his bags and things tomorrow evening, and then the witnesses are all going to come over on Tuesday, so we can get all the paperwork properly sorted out.” 

“Nice for you to have some company about the place, sir,” Sam observed with a grin. 

“It will be!  Frodo and I can celebrate our birthday together more comfortably, this way,” Bilbo agreed.  “Frodo might be a nice bit of company for you too, Sam. I know you play with the Cotton children and your brothers and sisters, and Frodo is a good deal older, but he’s been learning the elf-letters and languages for some time, and he’s got a good ear for a song.  I’m sure he’d enjoy hearing your poem about the bee.” 

Sam ducked his head and went red to the ears. “Please don’t tell Mr. Frodo about my bit of nonsense, sir!” he pleaded. “Please! I never should have told you!”

“Well, I won’t mention it  if you don’t want me to, Sam,” Bilbo said, taken aback. “I thought it was very good, particularly for your age.  And Frodo is a very good listener nowadays, you know, as you are yourself, of course.”

“I’d be much obliged if you didn’t mention it, sir,” Sam muttered unhappily.  

Bilbo recalled vague memories of youthful embarrassments from a very long time ago and felt some sympathy for the lad. Frodo was, of course twelve years older than Sam, which at their age was a long time. Pity. Frodo would be all the better for some of Sam’s plain common-sense. 

Sam seemed to have a great admiration for Frodo, too, which probably complicated things.  Now Bilbo thought about it, it might even be that to Sam, who had lived all his short life in number 3, Bagshot Row, the strange unsettled sort of life that Frodo had lived since his parents died, racketing about between Brandy Hall, the Great Smials at Tuckborough and Bag End, might appear almost glamorous. Absurd idea. 

Still, Sam really should not feel that his writing was a shameful thing.  The Gaffer was, perhaps, sometimes not the easiest father for a young poet... 

Bilbo laughed. “You know when you get to my age, you just don’t care for being embarrassed anymore.  I’ll recite my poems to anyone, you know, as long as they sit still long enough! Look, here’s this one about King Gil-galad, I’m only half-way through it, but does it stop me?  It doesn’t! I’m going to read it anyway.” 

“I’d like to hear that, sir,” Sam said gratefully, and Bilbo pulled out the sheet of paper with a flourish. 

“Now, did I tell you about Gil-galad?”  Sam shook his head. “Where to start! Well, in the very old days, not long after the Sun came up for the very first time, there was a great war against the Enemy.  You know, Morgoth, like in the nursery rhyme?” 

“He didn’t  _ really _ lose his washcloth?” Sam said looking more cheerful. 

“So far as I know, Morgoth never had a washcloth!” Bilbo said, laughing. “But he was real, even if people hardly remember him at all any more.  The rhyme is right that he was very cross! And he made a dreadful war against all the Free Peoples, and all the great Elvenkings of the Elder Days, and Men, and Dwarves, they all fought against him with bright swords.  He covered the sky in darkness, sent trolls and dragons and great swarms of bats and armies of goblins against them. One by one the great Elf-kings died, but in the end, Morgoth was defeated by the Valar, and thrust out into the Void Beyond Worlds.  

“And at the very end of the war, the Valar went home to Valinor, and left behind Ereinion Gil-galad in Lindon — that’s the country out west beyond the White Downs, Sam, between the Shire and the Sea, where the Elven-havens lie.  And Gil-galad was the last High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth.” 

“I thought the Noldor all went away to Valinor?” Sam said.  He had more or less given up on the weeding and had sat down on the grass cross-legged to listen in fascination.

“They came back to fight the Enemy.  There are lots of good tales about them: they are the elves we call the High Elves, because they had been in Valinor and learned great things there. So Gil-galad was king of the last of the High Elves, and after the Great War and the Darkness, they lived in the West, in Lindon, and away South of the old East Road that the Dwarves use.” Bilbo said, waving vaguely South-East. 

“And so for a long time, things were very peaceful and the Elves of all sorts lived together and were very happy.  But then, one of Morgoth’s servants woke up. Sauron he was called, and we call him the Enemy, too, in memory of the Great Enemy who is gone.  Sauron made war on Elves and Men, and he ruined the East-kingdom of the Elves, Eregion. The Great and Wise among the Elves went to war, but were driven back.  Some of them had to hide in a valley in the mountains, and that was when Rivendell was founded, as a stronghold against the Enemy.” 

Bilbo had not realised, when he had visited Rivendell with Thorin and his company, that Elrond, as well as being a great lore-master, was himself one of the great heroes out of the tales. But Gandalf had told him something about it on the long road home from the Lonely Mountain, and Gildor Inglorion, who was one of Bilbo’s best friends among the Wandering Companies of High Elves who visited the Shire now and again, had told him more. 

“But in the nick of time, Men came out of the West from the lsland of Númenor and helped the Elves, so that Gil-galad was not defeated.  Then there was war for a very long time, and the Isle of Númenor fell into the Sea. But at the end of it all, Gil-galad and Elendil of the Men of the West made a great alliance, and marched against Sauron, and that’s what this poem is all about. So, to get back to the point, there’s a poem about him, and this is what I’ve got so far;

_ Gil-galad was an Elven-king. _ _  
_ _ Of him the harpers sadly sing...” _


	5. Fëanor, the Silmarils, Beren & Luthien

Bilbo and Frodo had just got back to Bag End from a walk that had taken them down through the Green Hill country and through the Woody End.  It had been a long wet and tiring journey home, and both of them collapsed into armchairs as soon as they got in. They gratefully accepted Sam’s offer to make up the fire and find them some tea, since Mother Gamgee, who usually came in to ‘do’ for Bilbo, had long since made her way home. Sam was rather damp himself, since he had been mulching the onion-patch, and he seemed pleased to have an excuse to come inside into the dry.  

Once the fire was blazing, Sam provided cups of tea while Frodo fetched one of Bilbo’s fruit-cakes from the larder. 

“Stay and have tea and cake, Sam,” Bilbo suggested with an expansive wave.  “We’ve been discussing the history of the Silmarils all the way home from the Woody End, and I remembered I haven’t told you that story yet.”

Frodo gave Sam a rather mischievous sideways look as he handed him a slice of cake. “I hear Bilbo has been teaching you Elvish, Sam,” he said, in Sindarin. 

Sam’s brow furrowed seriously for a moment over his tea.  “A few words, Frodo of the House of Baggins,” he said rather laboriously, in the same language. “I slowly speak.”  Then he broke the studious expression with a triumphant grin, which Frodo matched. 

“Very good!” Bilbo told them both.  “But I wager that Sam at least would prefer to hear the tale of the Silmarils in the Common Tongue, and even you, Frodo, might find it rather hard work at the end of a long day to hear it all again in Sindarin.” 

“The Common Tongue’s good enough for me!” Frodo said, took a large bite of fruit-cake and put his feet on the foot-rest by the fire. 

“The Silmarils, Sam, were three jewels made by the elven-smith Fëanor.  He was the eldest son of Finwë.” 

“The first High King of the Noldor?” 

“That’s the one! Fëanor made the Silmarils to catch the light of the shining Trees of Valinor. They were very wonderful to see, and the Lady of the Stars hallowed them.   Now this was at the time when Morgoth was a prisoner in Valinor, for some reason, and he’d been there for a long time, and in the end they let him out — of something like the Lockholes, I assume though it sounds like he was there for much longer than anyone is ever shut away at the Lockholes. So Morgoth was angry about being imprisoned, and he saw the Silmarils and he wanted them. 

“Now,  Fëanor had two brothers, called Fingolfin and Finarfin.”

“I always think they must have caused a pretty puzzle to the postman!” Frodo said, laughing.

“They are rather hard to tell apart by name,” Bilbo admitted. “By all accounts though, the House of Finarfin were all golden of hair, and that was as rare then among the Noldor as it is with us.  Most of the Noldor had dark hair. And Fingolfin’s name has the word ‘goll’ in the middle, which means, Frodo...?”

“Wise,” Frodo said. 

“That’s it.  So there you are, you can tell them apart: Fingolfin the Wise, and Finarfin the Golden.  Fëanor didn’t get on with them too well, particularly Fingolfin. So Morgoth decided he would pretend to be friends with Fëanor — or perhaps with Fingolfin, it’s not very clear, but anyway he stirred up all sorts of trouble between them until there were arguments every day, and Fëanor started hiding his Silmarils and wouldn’t let anyone see them.  And eventually, there was a big row, Fëanor pulled a sword on his brother, and the Valar sent him off to cool down for a bit in exile. His father the king and all seven of his sons went with him.” 

“That’s a  _ lot  _ of sons,” Frodo said.  

Sam shrugged, with with the resignation of one who had grown up sharing a bed with two snoring older brothers, divided by a thin wooden wall from two older sisters and a wailing baby.  “Seems odd they’d all seven go with him,” he said. “You’d think he’d take one or two, not all of ‘em.”

“I think Fëanor sounds like a bit of an ass,” Frodo said.  “But Bilbo thinks there’s more to him.”

“Well, the story does say that he was the greatest of the Noldor,” Bilbo pointed out. “ And that the Enemy was behind all the arguments.” He thought about Thorin for a moment.  “Treasures can have... odd effects on people, sometimes,” he said, unhappily. 

“Anyway while all that was going on,” Frodo said, “Morgoth went away and found a very unpleasant friend. A monstrous spider, called Ungoliant.”

“How big’s ‘monstrous’?” Sam enquired with interest.  “There was one in my grandad’s privy once that was a good three inches across.”

“The ones I fought in Mirkwood were about the size of a dog,” Bilbo informed him, with some relish. “But I think Ungoliant was far bigger still, because all the Elves were scared of her, and she and Morgoth came in a great cloud of shadow to Fëanor’s house, and they killed King Finwë and took the Silmarils.  I don’t know why he was there and not Fëanor, so don’t ask! Then they went to the Trees of Light and Ungoliant sucked all the goodness out of them, and darkness fell on Valinor, and the Elves were all terribly afraid. But Morgoth and Ungoliant ran away after that before the Valar could catch them.” 

Frodo illustrated this statement with a dramatic scuttling motion with both hands. Sam laughed. 

Bilbo went on; “Now, Fëanor was furious, about his father’s death, and about his stolen Silmarils, and nothing would do but that he must swear a great oath that they would get the Silmarils back from Morgoth. And all his seven sons leaped up right behind him and swore it too. Then they went charging off to get revenge with all the other Noldor with them, Fëanor’s brothers included, but they couldn’t get across the Sea, of course, so they had to think again, and they went charging off, still in a great temper,  to the city of the Teleri which was called Alqualondë.” 

“This is the bit that makes me think Fëanor was an ass,” Frodo told Sam. 

“The Teleri had built ships, you see,” Bilbo told them.  “And Fëanor wanted the ships, to chase after Morgoth in, but the Teleri wouldn’t let him take them. So Fëanor tried to steal them, and the Teleri tried to stop them, and it turned into a terrible battle.  But the Noldor were great smiths and they had swords and armour, because they were going out to war, you see. They won the battle and stole the ships.” 

Sam shook his head in distress.  “Now, that doesn’t sound like a thing the Elves would do!” he said. 

Bilbo shook his head sadly. “A Kinslaying, the Elves call it, and it makes them terribly sad to speak of it, even now so very long afterwards.”

“I wondered if they were a very different kind of Elves,” Frodo said frowning.   

"I don’t know,” Bilbo said, thinking about Thorin again, standing implacable upon the wall of Erebor, and Bard of Dale standing proud and grim before him. He remembered Thorin, firing upon a herald, threatening to throw Bilbo himself from the wall, and the bright uncompromising face of the Elvenking watching him. Thorin striding out, magnificent, against the overwhelming numbers of the goblin army. Thorin, dying, taking back his words and deeds, and parting from Bilbo in friendship. Perhaps if he could get all that down in his book, somehow, then Frodo might begin to understand. 

“It’s one thing to say, sitting here at home in Bag End all safe and warm beside the fire, how wrong it all was.   But I think sometimes it’s easier than you’d think for a battle to get started. Or, almost started... Anyway. The Noldor took the ships. The Valar were very angry. They banished Fëanor again for good this time, and all his followers, and they foretold that everything they did would come to an evil end, or perhaps they cursed him so that it would.  Nobody seems to know for sure. Finarfin, the youngest of Fëanor’s brothers turned back then and sued for pardon, and he’s the Noldor king in Valinor, even now. But Fëanor and Fingolfin and Finarfin’s children, they all went on, up North where the Sea is narrower and it wouldn’t be so far to sail. 

“But then they found there were more people than would fit on the ships.  Fëanor and his sons seized them, and sailed off in them, leaving Fëanor’s brother Fingolfin and all the rest of them behind, and when they got back to Middle-earth, they burned the ships.  Because Fëanor didn’t get on with Fingolfin I suppose, and didn’t really want him to come too. But they found that Morgoth had got very powerful in Middle-earth and was doing terrible things there.  He’d attacked Thingol - remember, he was the Elven-king who got left behind right at the start? And he’d started capturing Elves and making them into his slaves, and had overrun most of the country where the Sindar lived, which was called Beleriand.  So it was a good thing for everyone that the Noldor had come back, really, with their swords and armour and all the rest of it. They went charging off into battle against the Enemy and his armies. Fëanor was killed by Morgoth’s horrible firedemons and that was the end of him!” 

“Sounds like he wasn’t much loss,” Sam said, with a sideways look at Frodo.  It was fairly clear to Bilbo that whatever Frodo thought, young Sam was determined to think too.  Ah well. He’d probably grow out of it in time. 

“So then, Fingolfin the Wise, and his sons Fingon and Turgon, and Finrod, who was Finarfin’s eldest son, were all still on the wrong side of the Sea.  No doubt they thought of going home, but Fingolfin was determined to avenge his father, and no doubt they were not too keen to go back to Alqualondë after the battle there either, so instead they walked across the Ice from Valinor all the way to Middle-earth.  A long road, and very hard and cold and bitter they found it, by all accounts, and there were not a few who died along the way.”

“And when they finally got to Middle-earth,” Frodo said, “They found that Fëanor was dead, and that his eldest son Maedhros had been captured by Morgoth, and was being kept in torment, hanging from a cliff by one arm!”

Bilbo tutted at him. “It’s no fun telling the story if you’re going to jump in and tell the best bits, Frodo!” 

“Sorry, Bilbo!” Frodo said. 

“Is this story all written down in a book, Mr. Bilbo?” Sam asked. 

“Not in the Common Tongue, Sam.  The Elves remember it all of course, and they have songs and poems and various accounts of it all, but so far as I know, the tale of the Silmarils never has been translated.” 

“You should write it yourself, Bilbo,” Frodo suggested. 

Bilbo shook his head in horror.  “I haven’t finished my own book about my adventure yet, Frodo!  If I started writing another one, I’d never get anything done! And it would be a good deal of work to set it all out in the proper language, rather than just tell it as a fireside story any old how. Anyway, I don’t suppose anyone would want to read such strange old tales of Elves. It’s not the kind of thing that’s well-thought-of.”   

“I would read them,” Sam said staunchly.  “Go on about the Silmarils, Mr Bilbo, do, I want to know what comes next!  Did Maedhros die?” 

“No,  _ his spirit burned strongly...  _ no that’s not right.  _  Shone brightly?  with the Light of the ancient world _ , the song says.  He lived, but Morgoth kept him in torment.  

“But then the Valar decided to send help. Even though they were still very cross with the Noldor about the battle at Alqualondë, they decided to help the people in Middle-earth. Remember, there was only starlight and the light from lamps and candles and so on in Middle-earth at that time, so it was all very dark, and the Enemy liked it that way.  So the Valar made the Sun and the Moon, and they set them in the sky to light the whole world. And the Enemy and his creatures were horrified, and they all ran away and hid underground for a while. 

“Now, Fingolfin’s eldest son, Fingon, had been good friends with Maedhros long ago, and when he heard what what had happened to Maedhros, he decided that he would try to rescue him, even though Fëanor had quarrelled with everyone and left Fingon and all their people behind. 

“So Fingon set off, all alone, and somehow he found his way past the wide walls watched by wolves and the great gates guarded by goblins, and he scaled the steep slopes.” Bilbo felt very pleased with the  alliteration and paused to scribble a quick note to himself with the stub of a pencil that he always kept in a pocket of his waistcoat, “...and at last he found his way right up onto the Enemy’s mountain where Maedhros was captive, to search for him.   He couldn’t find him anywhere at first — it was a very big mountain. And in the end he sat down in despair and began to play his harp and sing.” 

“Wouldn’t all the trolls and goblins and werewolves hear him and come running?” Sam asked, wide-eyed. 

“Well, Fingon was an Elf.  That’s the sort of thing they do.  Also, the Sun had just come up, so the trolls would have to hide, because they turn to stone if the sun touches them, you know. No doubt the goblins and the wolves were hiding too.  But Maedhros heard him. And although he was very weak and very much hurt, he sang back in reply. So, Fingon heard him and came rushing to try to help him, but Maedhros was high up on a sheer cliff, and Fingon couldn’t reach him.   Maedhros begged Fingon to kill him with an arrow from his bow, because he could see no other way to end his pain, and Fingon was about to do it, when at the last minute, an Eagle came to aid him! One of the great Eagles of the Mountains it was, and it picked Fingon up and brought him to Maedhros.”

“Like the Eagles that helped you on your adventure!” Sam said, excited. 

“A relation of theirs, I am sure,” Bilbo said. “But Fingon still could not free Maedhros even then, for the Enemy himself had set a band of enchanted iron about his wrist.  Maedhros begged him again for death!” 

Bilbo paused dramatically.  Sam was holding his breath, and although Frodo had heard the story before and was at an age where it was fashionable to pretend to be bored, he too was listening with great attention.  

“But instead of killing him, Fingon cut his hand off and freed him! Then the Eagle carried them both away to safety. The Enemy was very cross indeed about that, but there was nothing at all that he could do about it.

”Now Maedhros recovered and learned to fight with his left hand, and because Fingon had been so brave and noble, all the Noldor agreed to make up their quarrels and fight together against Morgoth, with Fingolfin as their king.  And so they did for a very long time, and held the Enemy under siege in his fortress, under the mountain of Thangorodrim.”

“What did King Elwë Thingol think of it all?” Sam asked.  “He that fell in love with the lady, and was the king of the Elves that stayed behind in Beleriand?”

“Well, he wasn’t at all happy when he found out what had happened to his kin and their ships at Alqualondë,” Bilbo said.  “But I suppose the Noldor were Elves, after all, not trolls or goblins. And there was too much he could do about it. But he did make a law that none of his people should speak the language of the Noldor, and that’s why what we speak as ‘Elvish’ nowadays is really the language of King Thingol’s people, and what we call the High Elvish, the language of the Noldor of Valinor, is mostly only used for a few old books, Sam.  Though there are a few people here and there that still speak it on occasion.”

Sam nodded seriously, his brow furrowed. 

“And Bilbo knows all of him,” Frodo said in Quenya with a grin. 

“And Bilbo knows all of  _ them _ , Frodo,” Bilbo told him with a reproving look, then repeated it in the Common Tongue for Sam.  “So the siege went on for hundreds of years, and now and again there were attacks by trolls or goblins or even a dragon or two, and King Fingolfin and Fingon and Maedhros fought them nobly, and many great deeds were done, I dare say, though there’s not much said of them now. 

“Fingon’s brother Turgon, he saw that trouble was coming.  He went away into the mountains with his sister Aredhel and his daughter Idril, and he made a great city upon a hill in a secret valley in the mountains.  And that city was called Gondolin, and it was full of tall towers and fountains, as beautiful as the cities of Valinor. 

“But Finrod Felagund of the House of Finarfin - he’s one of the golden-haired ones, remember? He was a great friend of Turgon’s and he too thought that there would be trouble ahead, so he went off and made a secret city too, but his city was built under the ground, in caves beside the River Narog.  

His city was carved into the rock and shone with lamps as beautiful as the great palaces of the Dwarves, for Finrod had met the Dwarves, and he was great friends with them.  They still tell tales of him and his city, Nargothrond. By all accounts, it was a wonderful place, though not as well-kept a secret as Gondolin. It was filled with joyful Elves, and the Dwarves helped in building it, and when the first Men came along, they went to visit Nargothrond too, and loved it dearly for its beauty and joyfulness.“

“Gondolin and Nargothrond,” Frodo said, playing with the resonant sound of the strange Elvish words as he said them.   “Even the names sound so beautiful and so sad.” 

“I like Nargothrond best,” Sam decided. “More sensible to live under the ground, I reckon.  I don’t hold with towers. Drafty, I’ll wager, and what’s to stop them blowing over in windy weather?” 

“Well, the Elves like them,” Bilbo said.  “I suppose they must have something going for them.   Now then, my throat has got quite dry. Perhaps you could rustle up another pot of tea, Sam, and then I’ll tell you the rest.” 

Sam brought tea, and Frodo threw another pair of dry green apple-logs onto the fire, to burn with a clear yellow flame and fill the room with a faint applewood fragrance.  The light outside the hobbit-hole had faded into darkening grey cloud in the face of the oncoming rain, so Frodo closed the curtains, and Bilbo lit a lamp, to brighten the walls and the cheerful red teapot and the  faces of the listening hobbits with a warm flickering glow, and make the shadows that hung around the room draw back their long fingers. 

He should be counting himself fortunate, Bilbo thought, to have his warm and comfortable home around him.  Here he was with cake and tea, in the pleasant company of these bright-eyed children, eager to hear his tales of Elves strange and distant though they were.  

And yet there was something that was not quite right: something that felt flat and stale.  He reached absent-mindedly into his waistcoat pocket, and felt that the old ring from his adventure was still there. It was, so all was well. 

Perhaps the problem was that he had still not finished writing his book. There were so many interruptions, here: it was so hard to find a few clear hours alone to write.  

It was so hard, he found, to make anything that was new or different, to think thoughts that he had not thought before. Once it had all seemed so much easier, but now...

Still, he had promised the boys the tale of the Silmarils, and they would be disappointed if he did not tell the rest of it. 

“So, the Sun came up, the Enemy was mostly under siege, and wasn’t able to enslave or attack people. Yet he still had the Silmarils, set in a crown of iron.   But then at last he attacked the Elves, and it was a terrible battle, full of rivers of fire and dragons blazing. Finrod’s younger brothers were killed, and a lot of other people were killed, and Finrod’s beautiful tower that he built on an island in the river was captured. 

“At the end, Fingolfin the King rode out against Morgoth and challenged him to single combat.  Fingolfin was a terrifying sight in his armour with his eyes blazing with fury as he blew his horn and called out for his Enemy to come forth.  And he called Morgoth craven, and Lord of Slaves, insults that shamed Him before all His followers, from the most admirable to the least of the goblins. And so He came forth!” Bilbo said, and...  

... was there something  _ odd _ , about the way that Bilbo could see that in his mind’s eye, about the fear that came with the image of Fingolfin, mailed and cloaked upon his great war-horse, his bright eyes shining with the Light of the Trees of Valinor, the sound of his great horn echoing down into the myriad depths of Angband, the words that he had said, the way that Morgoth’s people had looked at their master in fear and distrust...?  

It must be his imagination.  All of this was gone and forgotten long ago, save for the writings read only by Elven lore-masters, and those few people who made a hobby of antiquarianism, like Bilbo himself. He ran his finger around the ring in his pocket.  All was well, and perhaps his imagination was not so flat and stale as he had feared. He took a sip of tea. 

“But Fingolfin fell.  He wounded his Enemy sorely, but at last he was caught and slain, and the Elves grieve for him even now.  So Fingon his son became High King, and in time, he and Maedhros threw the Enemy back for a while.” 

“Now the next thing is a strange matter, and I haven’t been able to find out much about it,” Bilbo said.  “If I ever go to Rivendell again, I must make sure to ask, for there’s some mystery about it that the Elves I know don’t seem to like to speak of, and the Dwarves know little of it, or if they do, they don’t like to talk of it either.  But I’ll tell you what I know.

“It seems that Elwë Thingol, King of the Sindar, and his lady wife had a daughter, and her name was Lúthien, the Nightingale. This Nightingale fell in love with a mortal Man, named Emptyhand. But there was an enchantment laid on the Nightingale, that she must not marry unless she had one of the Silmarils.   So she and Emptyhand went to Nargothrond, where they asked for the help of Finrod Felagund of the golden house of Finarfin.

Now Finrod was a generous Elf and he had been rescued in the wars by Emptyhand’s ancestors, besides. So he agreed to help them, and they rode out to try to recapture the Silmarils.  But alas, they were betrayed by two of Fëanor’s sons. 

“These were Celegorm the Fair and Curufin the Crafty, and they said that if a Silmaril should go to anyone it must go to them, for only Fëanor’s sons had any right to them, and they would suffer no-one else to touch them, because of their oath.”

“Curufin is supposed to be the son who is most like his father,” Frodo put in. “I think he was an ass too.”

“Well, perhaps,” Bilbo said.  He remembered the Arkenstone, and Thorin; Smaug brooding alone endlessly upon a mountain of gold, and Dwarves, Elves and Men marching to claim the treasure, and wondered if he himself had ever been so very young, and if everything had seemed so simple to him then.  Probably it had. 

“However it happened, Finrod Felagund and Emptyhand were captured by the Enemy’s greatest and most terrible servant, and held prisoner in a horrible dark dungeon. One by one, Finrod’s people were killed by wolves, until only Emptyhand and Finrod remained alive. Then a wolf came for Emptyhand, but Finrod heard it in the darkness, and he broke his chains, and he slew the wolf with his hands and teeth, to save his friend.” 

“With his  _ teeth _ ?” Sam exclaimed, amazed. 

“The Elves are strong and terrible in battle,” Bilbo said, though he had not seen much of the wood-elves in battle himself, of course, and certainly nobody killing a werewolf with his teeth.  “But Finrod died in the fight, and the Elves mourn him still, for Finrod Felagund of Nargothrond was dearly beloved of Elves, and Dwarves and Men.”

Bilbo paused for a moment and thought about that. There was something about Finrod, and about Finrod’s death that Gildor Inglorion  would not speak of, and if Bilbo asked about it, Gildor would go obscure and Elvish and that would be the end of the conversation. If Bilbo ever got the chance, he would certainly ask Elrond about it, since Gandalf did not seem to know much about it either... Anyway, that was a thought for another time. 

“But then Nightingale came up.  She had a great power in her voice, and so it was that she rescued Emptyhand from the dungeon.  They went on to the fortress under Thangorodrim, and Lúthien sang the Enemy and all his servants into sleep. Emptyhand took a Silmaril from the Iron Crown itself.  He would have taken all three, but his knife broke, and they had to run off with only one.

“So, Nightingale took the Silmaril, and she and Emptyhand were able to get married at last, and very happy they were, for a little while, until Emptyhand died, for though Nightingale was a princess of the Elves, Emptyhand was a mortal Man.  Then Nightingale lay down and died too, for love of him, and the Silmaril was left behind to their son. Now, in the meanwhile, King Thingol and his wife had died...”

“I thought Thingol was an Elf?” Sam said, puzzled.  “They don’t die, do they?”

“Not of old age, no, but they can be slain,” Frodo told him. “Like Fëanor and his father...” 

“Oh yes,” Sam said, blushing. 

Bilbo went on; “I think Thingol and Lady Melian must have died in the wars, for the next we hear of the Silmaril, it was Dior, the son of Emptyhand and Nightingale, who was king in Doriath. He wore the Silmaril upon the great necklace that the Dwarves made for Finrod Felagund.  Dior wearing the Silmaril was more fair than words can tell, or so the verse goes, and he married an elf-lady and had three little children. 

“But the sons of Fëanor, hearing that a Silmaril had been taken from the Iron Crown, thought that the time had come at last to fulfil their oath.  And so Maedhros asked Fingon the king to join him in his war, and they raised a great army to take revenge for all the death and suffering that the Enemy had caused, and to win back the Silmarils. 

“They led a great army of Elves and Men and Dwarves to Thangorodrim, armoured and weaponed and carrying many bright banners. But the host of Maedhros was betrayed by Men, and the host of Fingon was tricked into battle too soon.  For Morgoth sent out Gelmir of Nargothrond, who had been a great hero taken prisoner, and Morgoth had blinded and tormented him. And they cut off his hands and feet, and last of all they hewed off his head, right there, in front of his brother Gwindor and all of Fingon’s host.” 

Frodo, even though he had heard this part of the story before, winced.  Sam, staring, whispered: “Oh, no!”

“Fingon’s host rushed into battle, with Gwindor at the forefront.  But Gwindor was taken captive, and Fingon was slain by Balrogs, just as Fëanor had been before him. Maedhros and his brothers were beaten back and had to flee far away, and the siege and the peace was over.  The Enemy was victorious!” 

“Oh, no!” Sam said again.  Frodo looked at him, began to say something then changed his mind and looked expectantly at Bilbo instead. 

“But that wasn’t the end of it,” Bilbo said.  “Morgoth had utterly defeated the armies of the Elves, and in the years after the great battle, the homes of the Sea-elves upon the coast were overrun, and the wonderful city of Nargothrond was destroyed by a Dragon of Morgoth.  It was a terrible time for the Elves, and they sent ships into the West to beg for help, but no help came, for the Valar were still angry about the Kinslaying. 

“But Morgoth had only two of the three Silmarils, and the third was in Doriath. And though Fëanor was dead, and Fingolfin too, and Finrod the Beloved and Fingon the Valiant, Fëanor’s seven sons were still bound by their oath to take back the Silmarils.”

Sam said: “But...” 

“Maedhros and his brothers attacked Doriath, and they slew Dior, and his wife, and Dior’s two little sons were lost. Three of Fëanor’s sons died in the attack.  Yet their only reward was the Enemy’s laughter, for Dior’s daughter Elwing and the Silmaril were hidden and carried away to the South.”

“Fingon would have stopped them, if he hadn’t died,” Sam said, adamantly. 

“You might be right, Sam” Bilbo said.  “No doubt Maedhros was very sad to lose his friend and filled with despair at the great disaster.  They say they didn’t mean to kill the little boys. But they were dead, none-the-less, and so was Dior and his queen, and the wonderful land of Doriath ruined forever, and that was the Second Kinslaying, and the Elves grieve more for that even than the first.

“Little Elwing and the Silmaril were carried off to the Havens at the mouth of the Great River, where the Gil-galad and the Sea-elves had fled when their cities were ruined, and soon the refugees of Doriath were joined by others, for Gondolin too had fallen, and Turgon the King was dead. Oh, it was a terrible disaster, and if the Elves were sad before, it must have seemed now that there was very little hope left at all. King Turgon’s daughter Idril and her husband led the survivors of the people of Gondolin to the Sea, and her little boy Eärendil was with them. 

“And in that terrible dark time, Eärendil grew up, and little Elwing too, and they married, for both of them were of blended peoples: both Man and Elf.  They had children: two little boys. It must have seemed then that there was a little hope left after all, and Elwing wore the Silmaril that had been saved at such peril from Doriath. 

“Yet then, Maedhros...” 

“Oh NO!” Sam said more loudly.  “No, no, no!” 

Bilbo paused and raised his eyebrows. “Time to go home, Sam?” 

“Oh! Not yet!  Begging your pardon, Mr Bilbo. Please go on!  I promise I won’t interrupt again!” 

“Very well then!” Bilbo said, secretly rather delighted to have such an enthusiastic audience. “So, in that terrible time, Maedhros and his remaining three brothers fell upon the Havens at Sirion, and they killed many of the people who were living there. The Third Kinslaying they call it, and more of a tragedy even than the First, at Alqualondë, or the Second, at Doriath. 

“Two of Fëanor’s sons died too, and so that left just two of them: Maedhros, and his brother Maglor.  But they still got no good of it. For Eärendil who was Lord of the Havens was not there, and Elwing threw herself into the Sea with the Silmaril around her neck.

“But they found Elwing’s children in the wreck, poor little souls, and Maglor son of Fëanor took them in, for he and his brother were terribly tired of their oath and the Silmarils and all the kinslaying and so on by then.  And from those children came all the great Kings of Men that ruled Númenor and the North Kingdom, and the Shire too, back in the days before the Kings went away. 

“But the Lord of the Sea came to Elwing, and he turned her into a bird, and she flew up and fled  away with the Silmaril to find Eärendil in his ship far away. And then, in despair, they gave up hope of Middle-earth, and sailed West to Valinor to beg the Valar for help.  Because they had the Silmaril, which was filled with holy light, the way opened for them and they came to the strands of pearl at the end of the World, and they went up into Valinor with the Sllmaril, and asked for help for Middle-earth.” 

“So it was that the Valar decided that they would send help at last.  When it seemed that all hope was lost entirely, a great army arrived upon the shores of Middle-earth.  I imagine the Enemy was most surprised, for he thought he had won. So there was another fierce war, and at the end of it, Eärendil came in his ship, which the Valar had set into the sky with the Silmaril as a star, and he defeated a great Dragon of Morgoth.  

“So, Thangorodrim fell, and the Great Enemy was defeated, even when it had seemed that the last hope was gone forever.  And you can still see the Silmaril in the evening sky, for that is the Star in the West, and you can see it even today, even over the plain, boring, ordinary Shire, a Silmaril of Valinor shines in all its glory.” 

“Oh!” Sam said, his eyes shining. “But what happened to the other two Silmarils, Mr Bilbo?” 

Bilbo sighed.  “I don’t know, Sam.  Maedhros and Maglor came to the camp of the Valar, and instead of surrendering to the justice of the Valar for their kinslaying as they were bid, they attacked the camp, stole the Silmarils and fled far away. I’m not sure if they count that as a kinslaying or not, though it seems they should, it seems to be a grief to all who speak of it. And nobody has ever seen either the Sons of Fëanor, or the Silmarils, ever again.” 

“So they are still out there somewhere?” Sam said, much more intrigued than alarmed. 

Frodo shrugged.  “Nobody knows. This was all long ages of the world ago, of course, so they might be dead, or fled far away, or gone to the Dark Land to join the servants of evil.”

“Now, I still don’t think it’s that last one, Frodo,” Bilbo said.  “This is what we were debating on our long wet walk home through the mud, Sam.  Whether the Sons of Fëanor were altogether evil, or whether they were not. A hard knot to untangle, especially at such a distance!  But I hold to what I’ve always said : Elves are Good People. And even if they did some bad things, I don’t believe that even they had fallen quite entirely into darkness.”  

“We have, though,” Frodo said with a grin.  “Fallen into darkness, I mean! It’s well past supper-time!”

“Help!” Sam exclaimed and leapt to his feet.  “I’m a right clodpate! I should have been home ages ago to shut up the chickens!  The Gaffer will give me a right old earful if Daisy hasn’t remembered to do them.”

“You’d best be off then, Sam,” Bilbo said. “Tell him we kept you late making the tea!” 

“T’was a pleasure, Mr Bilbo,” Sam told him earnestly as he hurried to the door, “And I thank you very kindly for the story.” 

As he ran home down the Hill, the rain-clouds had rolled away, and away in the West, the Star of Eärendil shone upon the wet hill and the rain upon the  leaves and hedges glinted faintly, to Sam’s delighted eyes, with the light of Elven jewels and the Trees of Light. 


	6. Cabbages & Potatoes

Sam was double-digging the vegetable patch, or perhaps he was triple-digging it, Bilbo thought.  He certainly seemed to be putting in a great deal of effort, heaving at the earth with his fork. His hair was damp with sweat, and so was his shirt.  When he turned to lever a great clod of earth out of the way, his brown face looked set and miserable. Bilbo put down his pen — drat it! Today would be  _ another  _ day when he was not going to get much writing done — and wandered into the kitchen, where he made two mugs of tea. 

“What’s up, Sam?” he asked, offering a sturdy brown mug.  Sam had clearly not heard him coming, and he jumped and almost spiked his toe with the fork.   He had grown a little taller than Bilbo was now, and was considerably broader in the shoulders, too.

“Sorry!” Bilbo said.  “I thought you’d seen me come out.”

“I didn't,” Sam said rather sullenly, but he paused in his furious activity, and accepted the mug of tea. 

“Didn’t you dig this bed over not two weeks ago, Sam? Is something wrong?” Bilbo asked.    

“Nothing, sir,” Sam said woodenly, and sipped his tea. 

Bilbo knew him better than that by now. “Really?” 

Sam sighed.  “Oh, it’s nothing really, Mr Bilbo. Honestly, it isn’t.  Or it shouldn’t be. It’s just... well, the truth is, I’ve just heard my brother Halfred’s going off to Northfield.  Hamson’s gone away already, to work for uncle Andy and be a roper, and my Mam’s gone to stay with him. Doesn’t look like she’s coming back.   Daisy’s getting married and moving away too. And I have to stay here and work for the Gaffer  _ forever!”  _ Sam suddenly remembered that he was talking to his employer.  __ “It’s not that I don’t like looking after the Bag End garden, sir,” he said hastily. 

“Of course, Sam,” Bilbo said, a little taken aback by this sudden outpouring. Sam did not usually talk much about his family. 

“It’s a really good garden, Bag End, no doubt about that,” Sam said passionately. “A garden you can be proud of, this one. It’s just... sometimes it feels like there should be something  _ more _ , you know?”

“Only too well, Sam,” Bilbo told him with feeling. 

“I’m fond of the old Gaffer.  Honest, I am. He can be hard work sometimes, but still, he’s my dad.  It’s not been easy for him, raising six kids. And you know, he’s getting on a bit, and he’s on his own now Mam’s gone to live with Hamson.  He needs someone to help out with the heavy work and all that. But... I’m his youngest son. And I’m going to be stuck here  _ forever, _ and I’m never going to see Rivendell, or hear the Elves sing,” Sam said miserably, speaking very fast all of a sudden. “What’s the point of me learning it all?  The elf-letters, and Gil-galad, and poor Turin and the dragon, and stars and Silmarils and all that? None of it’s for the likes of me. I only need to know cabbages and potatoes.  Maybe the Gaffer’s right. My heads full of daydreams. Maybe I got above myself and I shouldn’t never have started.”

“Oh, nonsense, Sam!” Bilbo said. “Even if you never go more than twenty miles from Hobbiton, that’s no reason not to write and read and think!  I always enjoy hearing your poetry, you know.”

Sam ducked his head, pink with embarrassment, and Bilbo went on, having worked out what he wanted to say. 

“It’s not as if the world is only out there, in the places that are blank spaces on the Shire-maps, Sam.  The Elves come through the Shire, and the Dwarves too, and there are Men of all kinds wandering not far away, both good and very bad. The more you know, the more prepared you are.  I never meant to go on my journey, but when I did, my goodness! I wished I’d done a bit more reading-up in advance, I can tell you!” 

“The Gaffer heard me talking about how the Elves go into the West over the Sea , and he called me a knobskull and a ninnyhammer,” Sam said, gloomily. “He said I should stick to potatoes, and not go getting mixed up in the business of my betters. Then he said he’d take his belt to me if he heard me at it again.” 

Bilbo was not sure what to say to that, so he sipped his tea rather awkwardly. 

“Would you like me to have a word with him?” he offered, after a moment, hoping desperately that Sam would say ‘no’.  But there was really no way out of it, he had to offer, nuisance though it was. 

Thankfully Sam looked almost as alarmed at the prospect as Bilbo felt.  “Don’t worry yourself, Mr Bilbo!” he exclaimed. “You know the Gaffer. More bark than bite, he is and always has been, and he’s stiff in the arms nowadays anyway. I can always pop up to Bag End until he stops shouting.”

“You know you’re always welcome here, Sam,” Bilbo said, and hesitated.  “I have started to think that I might go away again,” he said, eventually.  “Don’t mention it to anyone yet. I’ve told Frodo, but I’d rather it didn’t go all round the Shire.”

“I won’t say a word, Mr Bilbo,” Sam said, rather sadly. “But... where are you going this time?” 

“Oh,” Bilbo said, “Out and about.  Into the wild country, back to the mountains.  Here and there to see old friends, and maybe this time, not come back again.  What you said, in a way. The feeling there should be something more, or perhaps, that  _ I _ should be something more.  The Shire doesn’t entirely suit me any more, I find, and there are so many interruptions, it’s hard to just sit down and write anything new...   But that’s not... that’s not what I wanted to say to you, Sam. If I go off, then Frodo is my heir, of course, and he’ll be the Baggins of Bag End, and that will be jolly good for him, I think. He’ll do a slap-up job of it, once he’s of age.”

“Course he will, sir,” Sam said with automatic loyalty. 

“But I think one day, Frodo will look at Hobbiton, and the hills and the Shire and...  there’s a good chance that he’ll want to go elsewhere too. Maybe not forever, maybe just there and back again.”

“Oh,” Sam said, looking desolate. 

“But it’s a big, dangerous world out there, Samwise Gamgee. It’s good to have friends beside you, discovering it. I think it might be a good idea if you went with Frodo, if he goes.”

Sam stared at him as if such a thought had never occurred to him before. 

“You have a little more reading and learning and thinking to do yet, before you’ll be ready to spread your wings, Sam, if I may say so.  Leave it till you’re of age. But it might be as well to have a word with your brothers and your sisters, and maybe with the Cottons, too, and just lay the groundwork, as you might say.  So that if Frodo tells you, one day, that he’s off to Rivendell, or to Dale, or the Lonely Mountain, you’re free to go along, if you still want to.” 

Sam thought about that for a while.  “I think I will, Mr Bilbo,” he said eventually.   “I really think I will.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter isn't too unkind to the Gaffer. To write this, I started collecting together all the bits and pieces about him, and I hadn't realised before that although the Gaffer comes across as essentially a comedy character when you only get a few words at a time from him, pretty much everything he says is severely critical of Sam, discouraging of learning, reading and writing, and very much in support of the existing social structure (which puts him above Sam, of course, as his father, and which separates Sam from Bilbo who shares his interests. ) 
> 
> I ended up feeling so sorry for Sam, who clearly loves his Dad but rarely seems to get a kind word from him, and realising why it is that although Frodo must have known Sam pretty well, Frodo still seems rather surprised once they are travelling together, to discover just how clever Sam is, and find out that he's a poet in his own right. And then I started noticing all the tiny moments when Frodo is supportive of Sam's poetry or protective of him in small social interactions (particularly with Pippin) and I fell in love with them both again. awww.


	7. The Start of a Conspiracy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've wondered for ages how it was that Merry Brandybuck and Sam Gamgee met and decided to form a Conspiracy to Find Out About The Ring and Investigate Bilbo and Frodo Baggins. I'm pretty sure it was Sam and Merry, Pippin is a lot younger and Fatty Bolger seems like more of a hanger-on than the originator of a conspiracy. But Sam had never been to Buckland, and Merry lived at the other end of the Shire from him. There must have been some occasion when they met and got talking!

The sky was clear, a shining cloudless blue. Far above the Bag End garden a small dark shape hung almost unmoving: a peregrine falcon poised against the brilliance.  It was a breathlessly hot day. 

Sam had risen early to cut the grass, and now he was sitting in the shade, leaning his back comfortably against the trunk of the old oak tree at the bottom end of the garden. Bilbo and Frodo had gone off, grumbling and reluctant, to a meeting of the Shire Court in Michel Delving, so today Sam had all of Bag End to himself; all the gardens and the finest hobbit-hole in all the Westfarthing was his to do as he wished.   But it was far too hot to do anything but sit quietly under the oak-tree with his pipe, and be grateful that he did not have to sit in a stuffy room in Michel Delving with a bunch of boring old...

Oh.  Well, he had been alone. 

“Hello Sam,” Bilbo's visitor, Merry Brandybuck said, drat him.  Sam had thought he'd gone off with Bilbo and Frodo. He debated briefly whether he was supposed to stand up for the heir to Buckland, and concluded that even the Gaffer at his most critical would not call it disrespecting your betters to stay sitting down on a day like this.  Young Merry wasn’t even of age, after all: he was two years younger than Sam was himself. 

“Hello, Master Merry,” he said politely.

“Bilbo told me to run away and play,” Merry said, sitting down in the shade with a sigh of relief.   “I was all ready to be offended, then I realised it was a perfect excuse not to trail all the way to Michel Delving in the heat after all, so I gave him my best boyish grin and left before he changed his mind.  You should have seen poor Frodo’s envious face!” 

“A nice day to have to spend indoors,” Sam agreed. 

“Far too nice... Do you work in the gardens all year round?”

“Well, unless it’s pouring.  Or far too hot, like today,” Sam said. "Not a bad way of life, all things considered."

Merry pulled out his own pipe, and began to tamp down the pipeweed. “And you’ve known Bilbo your whole life?” he asked. “This must be a strange place to have grown up.  They say Cousin Bilbo is outstandingly odd.”

“Old Mr Bilbo knows a lot that most people don’t,” Sam said rather coolly.

“Oh, please don’t be offended!” Merry said.  “People say the Brandybucks are odd all the time.  We’re used to it! I just wondered if you could tell me a bit more about Bilbo. He’s by far my most interesting relative. Most of them are tedious in the extreme. But Bilbo is famous for vanishing and coming back again, and he knows old Gandalf and all the Dwarves that come through the Shire...”

“He knows Elves, too,” Sam said, unbending somewhat. “He’s a very learned gentleman.  He can speak both their languages and write their letters.”

“Elves,” Merry said reflectively. “Are they real, then?”

“You should ask Mr Bilbo about them,” Sam said. “He goes off to see them quite often — off in the West there, where the Grey Havens lie.  And they go through the Shire too, by all accounts, on their way to the Havens, though I’ve never seen one myself.” In fact, Sam was almost sure that he had once seen an Elf in the woods, when he had been walking there at dusk, not far from The Water. But that was a secret and very important thing that he was not going to tell to just anyone.

“Bilbo doesn’t talk much about his adventures or his peculiar friends,” Merry said scrunching up his nose in a faintly disappointed manner.  “Or not to anyone but Frodo, anyway, and Frodo’s almost as close as Bilbo is about anything that Bilbo tells him.”

“There’s a lot of people reckon that talk of Elves and such isn’t quite respectable,” Sam ventured. 

“Yes.  I think it’s a pity, don’t you?  There’s so much to find out, and so much going on, yet nobody wants to talk about it!” Merry said, annoyed. “Over in Buckland, we see more than a few strange things, I can tell you. There are some very odd people coming in over Brandywine Bridge now, and the Borderers turn more away than they let in.  And then, we’ve got the Old Forest on our doorstep, and there are some very odd tales that come out of there, sometimes. Once, I went there alone to explore, and I heard this voice, singing in the distance. It was the strangest thing, because nobody lives in there, or at least nobody is supposed to, but that voice... if I wasn’t imagining it, it was the most lovely thing I’ve ever heard.  Like moonlight on a waterfall, or spring sunlight on young beech-leaves reflected in a river.”

Sam considered him thoughtfully for a moment. “That does sounds like it might be an Elf,” he said. “Very notable singers, they’re supposed to be, so Mr Bilbo says.  Did you happen to catch the words of the song?” 

Merry shook his head.  “I don’t speak Elvish,” he said.  “I asked Bilbo if he might teach me, but he said he didn’t have time.” He gave Sam a grin.  “So when I saw you weren’t busy just now, I thought I’d grab my chance and pump you for information about Bilbo.  It’s one way of finding things out. I hope you don’t mind.” 

“I’ve had that thought myself,” Sam said.  “About finding things out, I mean. Mr Bilbo, he’s all in favour of getting an education any way that come to hand.  He’s kindly taught me a bit of Elvish myself, as it happens. Sounds like you’ve got tales to share from Buckland that I would never get to hear in Hobbiton.” 

Merry leant back against the tree and gave him a careful, considering look. “Are you suggesting an exchange of information?” he asked. “Because if you are, I’m all for it.” 

“All right,” Sam said. “In private, like, though.  It’s not everyone can get away with talking about Elves as free as Mr Bilbo can.” 

Merry nodded seriously. 

 

*****

 

The shadows stretched out long and blue across the new-mown grass, and a blackbird was singing sweet and clear in the oak-tree. Sam looked up from talking of tales of Elves, of Dwarves, and of Bilbo Baggins, to see that the day was ripening into a warm, sweet evening. 

“Time for me to be gone,” he said.  “I’m off down to the Water to cool off.”

He was meeting with Tom and Nibs and Rosie and Marigold by the Water that evening, for a splash and a picnic.  He looked up at the Hill. No sign of Bilbo or Frodo yet. 

Merry made pretty good company, really, and it was a very fine thing to be able to talk about Bilbo and the Elves with someone who really seemed to appreciate them, for once. 

“D’you want to come?” he said.  

Merry smiled.  “I’ve love to!” he said. 


	8. Appendix A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This story mentions a hobbit nursery rhyme. Some people said, strange folk that they are, that they wanted to read the rhyme, so I have made a trip to the Shire Libraries and Records Service and found a copy of it, which I include here.

Bad old Morgoth lost his washcloth  
How he screamed and howled!

He looked high up, he looked down low  
T’was nowhere to be found!

He went and asked the goblin men  
But they just ran away!

He went and asked young Jenny Wren  
But she refused to say!

He thought the Elves had stolen it  
And he was very cross

He was a right old grumpy-pants  
That wicked old Morgoth

Young Jenny flew into the trees  
And there she made her nest 

Laid her egg in the finest washcloth  
That ever was seen in the West.

**Author's Note:**

> Years ago when the LOTR movies were being filmed, I remember seeing an interview with Ian McKellen saying that if he were young and playing a Hobbit, not Gandalf, he would have loved to make more examination of the class differences in the Shire and between Sam and the rest of the party, which are rather interesting, and can sometimes be quite uncomfortable for a modern reader. So this is also my attempt to examine that.


End file.
